When trouble’s come, what will you do?

Will you gaze into the stunning storm and rue?

Or will your cry yourself to sleep in pain?

Who shall know? How would anyone find out?

The rain’s globules are drowned out by the thunder’s shout.

This Sunday night when you’re the only mortal in the home,

You forget, when a meow sounds, that your kitten tends to roam.

The feline’s eyes glare at you through the obscurity and your glance outside,

Noticing the haunting dewdrops on the window’s glass beginning to slide,

Deciding that on this stormy night,

Your troubles might be replaced by your overwhelming fright.

Finally falling asleep in your warm, cozy bed,

The rhythmical raindrops are heard even to the dead.

On this lone, Sunday night.